This time, I press against the cold steel and watch my fingers curl around the handle and slowly twist. I can tell by the way I inch forward that I believe I’ll have the chance to choose whether or not I want to enter, after I see what’s inside.

But this is not so today.

The door opens and I’m in with such force that my cheeks draw back and my neck strains against the pressure.

It’s so dark.

Lack of light is not the issue. It’s well-lit. Sharply, in fact. Bright fluorescents so exposing, that I can see all of my smudges and every choice I’ve ever made.

Nonetheless, it’s dark in here.

The blaze of light showcases every setting, subject and sonnet I’ve ever engaged in and holds it up to the heat of the glare. The doubt of it all melts and it drips its hot, inky stain over my skin.

There’s often darkness in light.

But whether or not we turn the key, open the door, step inside or flip a switch, it goes both ways. There’s also light to be seen in the darkness.

A plea, if you will, for critiques and feedback. I rewrote one of my ‘stories’ and I’d like your take on which you like better and most importantly, why. Feel free to leave comments. (Please, please will you leave comments?!) I’m batting my lashes…

Good Enough (A)

The powder slowly fell out of the paper envelope into the bowl, reminding me of a dump truck off-loading a pile of sand; only the dust rising from this pour was so sweet, my mouth watered at the scent.

I carefully tore open a second packet, fearful of losing even one of the tiny, tasty granules. Spinning a spoon, I methodically mixed the two flavors together making sure all was evenly dispersed.

The kettle was taking forever. I braided my hair and drew hearts on the windowpane where condensation had formed. I did a few pirouettes and slid back and forth across the sleek kitchen floor, but the kettle still hadn’t boiled.

Unable to wait any longer, I added the slightly more than lukewarm water and stirred away. Growing even more impatient, I added the cold and happily popped the mixture into the fridge.

I did some homework, brushed the dog and painted my fingernails, each one a different color, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I checked and checked again, finally deciding it was good enough.

Quivering almost as much as it was, I brought the heaping bowl up to my room. I’d waited for what felt like an eternity and I was finally about to reap the reward.

But to my surprise, it wasn’t ‘good enough’. In fact, it wasn’t any kind of good at all. It was runny and watery, not firm and wiggly. It was sour and sad, rather than joyful and jolly.

As I sat on my bed slopping the red garble around in the bowl, it didn’t take me long to figure out that greatness never comes from ‘good enough’.

Good Enough (B)

The fine powder drifts out of the paper packet into the massive glass bowl, like dump trucks off-loading piles of sand; only the dust rising from this pour is so sweet, my mouth waters at the exhilarating scent tickling my nose.

I cautiously snip open a second packet, fearful of losing even one of the tiny, tasty granules. Spinning a spoon, I ever so slowly mix the two flavors together; taking great pains to ensure all is evenly dispersed.

But the kettle takestoo long.

I braid my hair and draw hearts on the windowpanes where condensation has formed. I do a few pirouettes and slide back and forth across the sleek kitchen floor in my sock-covered feet, but the water still hasn’t come to a boil.

Unable to wait any longer, I add the slightly warmer than lukewarm water to my mix and stir away. Growing even more impatient, I dole out the cold and happily pop the concoction into the fridge.

I doddle over homework, brush the dog and carefully paint my fingernails, each one a different color, but the mixture is never far from my thoughts. I check and check again, impatiently deciding it’s good enough.

Quivering almost as much as it is, I bring the heaping bowl up to my room. I have worked and waited for what, to me, feels like an eternity and at long last, am on the verge of reaping the fragrant reward.

But to my surprise, it isn’t good enough. In fact, it isn’t any kind of good at all. It is runny and watery, not firm and wiggly. It’s sour and sad, anything but jubilant or jolly.

And as I sit on my bed peering at the tangerine-tinged garble in the massive glass bowl, it doesn’t take me long to see that nothing great ever comes from good enough.

Like this:

She rubbed the sticks together. Back and forth, back and forth, fast as she felt she could, keeping them pressed as tight as her muscles would allow. Her shoulders ached and her braids swung to and fro with momentum. Try as she might, nothing but a thin trail of smoke came of the friction she was struggling to create. She was weak, became dejected. Gave up.

She went about her day, gathering wood, beating mats, washing clothes, fetching water. Busy, she tucked the failure in the far corner of her mind, ignored, not quite forgotten.

But the next day, she tried again, hunting for dry, skinny twigs, propping them up with rocks and dirt. She scraped two of them together faster and harder than the day before until her fingers became red. Raw. Dust swirled all around her, suffocating, hindering. Still nothing. She ached and threw the kindling down in defeat.

That night she lay resting and thoughts melted into sleepy dreams. She endured fierce fervor, fuel and flashes. She toyed with passions, promises, pledges and purpose. She suffered dedication. She endured commitment. She breathed success.

Rising the next morning, she was wiser, shrewder. She’d try harder. She would not give up, for her dreams had reminded her, where there’s smoke there is fire.